COPS SPIES & PI'S: The Four Novel Box Set

by David Wind

  JH: What happened next?

  GS: I went to the bedroom. Elaine loved candles—there were some candles in the hallway, some in the bedroom. There was just enough light to see, but not clearly. I walked into the bedroom and saw her lying on the bed. She was wearing a white nightgown. I… it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Then I saw the stain on the nightgown. When I called her name, she didn’t say anything. It took me a couple of seconds to realize something was wrong. I went to the bed and called her name again. She didn’t move.

  I felt her neck. There was no pulse. I looked closer at her chest and saw the blood. I tried to do CPR, but it was too late.

  JH: What did you do then?

  GS: I called 911.

  JH: Tell me about the gun. It was your father’s, correct?

  GS: Yes. It was lying next to her. I picked it up and stared at it, not understanding how it could be there and not in the case in the living room. My father served in Vietnam. It was his .45 from the service. We kept it in a showcase.

  JH: It was loaded?

  GS: No, never. There was a clip in the case with a couple of bullets in it, but it was for show. We always thought the bullets were too old to work. My father had left the service in ‘74.

  JH: What happened then?

  GS: I stayed next to Elaine. I couldn’t move away from her.

  JH: Then the police came. What happened next?

  GS: First some regular officers came. They called homicide. When the detectives came and saw what had happened, one of them took me into the living room, the other stayed in the bedroom. A half hour later, the crime scene people and the medical examiner arrived. They went through the entire apartment and did what they do.

  After the first detective finished talking to me, the other one took his place and asked me to go over what had happened. I told him the same things, but when I finished, I read his reaction to my story and knew something was wrong. He didn’t believe me. I could see it in his face. When I asked permission to make a phone call, he told me I could call my lawyer later, after he read me my rights. I told him I didn’t want to call a lawyer: when I told him who I wanted to call, he made the call himself.

  JH: He called your friend Christopher Bolt.

  GS: Yes. Chris is a sergeant in the Emergency Services Division of the department. They handle the hostage things, bank robberies and the like. The detective called him and Chris was there ten minutes later.

  JH: Why did you want him there?

  GS: I was alone. He was my friend and I was surrounded by twenty people who seemed to think I killed Elaine. I needed someone who knew me to talk to them. Chris knows I wouldn’t hurt Elaine.

  JH: And when he arrived?

  GS: He was as stunned as I was, and he knew I didn’t do anything to Elaine. But everyone else had already decided I had.

  JH: When they arrested you, what did you think?

  GS: It was a mistake and I would be released soon. But it didn’t happen that way. They never looked for anyone else because they were sure I had killed her. There was all the so-called evidence. My father’s gun was used to kill her: There was no evidence of forced entry. My call to the police was at 11:48. One of our neighbors remembered hearing a loud bang, but she didn’t know the time, except it was after eleven, because she had just gone to bed.

  No one else heard anything, and no one saw anything. The time of her death was between 11:00 and 11:40. They said they could tell from her body temperature. It happened just before I got there, but no one saw anyone leaving the building. But if I’d done it, why would I have called the cops instead of high-tailing it out and getting an alibi?

  JH: When you were on the witness stand, you spoke of seeing a man leave the building.

  GS: He was in the shadows, wearing a hoodie. I didn’t see his face.

  JH: You told the police Elaine had received a lot of phone calls that were either hang-ups or silence. Did they investigate that?

  GS: Yes. They went through all the phone records and they validated most calls. But there were others from pay phones. They said they couldn’t determine who made those. And it wasn’t just phone calls. For the two weeks before Elaine was… before it happened, she told me she thought someone was following her. But every time she tried to see who it was, she couldn’t.

  JH: Are you saying there was no way for the police to check your story?

  GS: As I said, it didn’t matter to them. They’d already made up their minds.

  JH: So it’s the old story of it being your word against their evidence. What do you think they should have done differently?

  GS: There was no concrete evidence. They should have looked deeper into all the publicity that had been generated for Elaine, when she took over the lead in Phantom. They based everything on the supposition I was jealous because of her being seen around town with different high profile men.

  JH: You’ve always said Elaine’s dates were just for show. Can you really be so certain she wasn’t having an affair?

  GS: Absolutely. Everybody connected with the production knew it. She always came home at the end of the ‘date’: it was the business of show business. My attorney called three of her ‘dates’ to the stand. They all said the same thing. It was for publicity.

  JH: You maintain you saw a man leaving the building when you arrived. What happened with him?

  GS: He was never found.

  JH: I know your friend, Christopher Bolt, did his own investigating. What came of that?

  GS: He couldn’t find anything.

  JH: It all seems like an episode of “The Fugitive” doesn’t it?

  GS: This isn’t television and I’m in jail, not out on the street finding out who did it.

  JH: If you had been free to look, do you think you could have found him?

  GS: I would have made it my life’s work, but I’m not on the street. I’m in a cell on Riker’s.

  JH: Will you appeal the verdict?

  GS: My lawyer’s already prepared the papers. But, he doesn’t hold up much hope unless we can find new evidence.

  JH: Do you have anything else you want to say to the people out there?

  GS: What else could there be? All I can say is I loved Elaine and I would never have harmed her. By the time they read this, I’ll be in prison. All I can ask is, if there is anyone who knows anything to please come forward.

  <><><>

  After the interview, my thoughts kept returning to Storm. The way he’d talked, the way he’d held himself made me feel for him. When you read this interview you won’t be able to hear the agony in his words that I did, but maybe you’ve discerned enough to consider the possibility of his innocence. Deep down, I believe Storm has been sentenced to a life of horror for something he did not do.

  If he had not handled the weapon, if he had come home when he was supposed to, perhaps this interview would never have been written. But such suppositions are the stuff from which dreams are made –unless, one day, we learn the truth of what happened to Elaine Hall.

  This crime left a lovely and talented young woman dead, and the investigation sent her fiancé to jail for life—two acts that destroyed lives and deprived the American theater of some of its most promising talent.

  That’s bad enough. But what makes this story even more tragic is the possibility it has allowed a killer to roam free.

  Chapter 1

  Orange and red, the setting summer sun lowered the curtain of the day, melding blue sky into the darkness of a night that called to me. I’m a night person: I come alive when the sun sets and the city turns into a living, breathing entity powered by the headlights and fumes of cabs and cars moving along the hectic streets.

  I’d picked up my date just before seven, and we hopped a cab downtown, for an off Broadway show. As we approached Forty-Sixth Street, a few blocks west of the neon Disneyesque-like Times Square area, the shiny new blue Honda in front of us stopped next to a sidewalk hooker. Our cab had no choice but to stop as well.

  The ho
oker was dressed in a black leather-like micro skirt and see through halter-top. She had long blonde hair and, as she bent toward the window of the car, I saw her face. She could have been anywhere from fourteen to nineteen. I judged her closer to fourteen.

  “What is she, twelve?” my date asked, sarcastically. “Jeez….”

  My date was a hope-to-be actress I’d met at Joe Allen’s during lunch a few weeks earlier. After twenty minutes of conversation, I discovered she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to be a real estate agent or an actress. She had the looks for the theatre, but the bigger question was did she have the guts and the fortitude for the long haul: personally, I thought she’d make a hell of a corporate real estate agent—she was a good talker, a great looker and ambition radiated from her—Trump would love her!

  But if she wanted to be an actress, who was I to pour water over her dreams. The truth was, despite her beautiful face and body, I sensed it wouldn’t happen—I do know Broadway.

  The middle-aged cabby leaned back and informed us in his thick singsong Pakistani accent, “That is nothing. They have them even younger.” He shook his head. “You would think when the mayor cleaned up Times Square, these people would have left. But no, they just moved west and nobody does anything about it.”

  I didn’t reply to his off-handed wisdom as I watched the hooker make her agreement with the john and slip into the passenger seat. When the car moved off, and the cabby started forward, I dismissed her from my thoughts. Or at least I tried, but her child-like face nagged at my subconscious.

  I had seen far too many pictures of underage girls who had disappeared—some taken from their homes by predators, others who had run away and ended up on the streets. Too many of them looked like her. I call them carton kids, because that’s what they were: The ones on the side of milk cartons: lured through Internet chat rooms by predators or girls on the run from the hidden darkness of their homes. I had a feeling her face was important, I didn’t know why, but I was confident I would remember.

  My date’s hand slid over mine, interrupting my thoughts of the teenage hooker. I looked into her eyes and tried to read what lay behind them. Was she looking for more than dinner and a show and a little romance? I hoped not, because I wasn’t. I have a trust issue: women I cared for ended up hurt, or dead and I didn’t trust it not to happen again.

  Ten minutes later the cab deposited us in front of the restaurant. The unspectacular dinner took care of itself in a slow but fashionable way and an hour later, we were in the theatre. I love the theatre, and I always look forward to seeing a new show.

  A special magic happens when the house lights go down and the actors take the stage, transporting you from your world to theirs. But the magic wasn’t in the cards tonight and when the two hours of wooden acting and poorly written and stilted dialogue ended, it left me wanting something more. On my date’s suggestion, we walked three blocks to SO—StatusOne—the new ‘in’ club on Thirty-eighth Street, off Broadway. The club was inside an old clothing district warehouse. Decorated in silver and black modern funk with electric pastel accents, and populated by a multitude of people who dressed like storefront mannequins and whirled like robots, the club was loud and crowded. I prefer an intimate place, with good music and soft lights. But for tonight, this is what the lady wanted.

  Inside, she pulled me onto the dance floor and who was I to protest? She was nice to be with, a pleasure to dance with, and easy to hold.

  After the club, we went to her place, on Eighty-ninth. She invited me in, but I hung back, knowing if I came in, there could be no promises of anything for the future. When I started to talk, she smiled, placed a forefinger across my lips, and said sweetly, ‘Shut up Gabe.”

  I shut up and we spent a few hours enjoying ourselves; but, as I lay in bed with the lightly snoring would-be actress/real estate mogul, the face of the blonde hooker in the micro skirt floated into my mind. It took all of three seconds for me to make the connection. I was surprised it had taken me so long, but at least now I knew why her face bothered me: She was a milk carton girl—almost.

  I’d seen her picture on the wall of Save Them, an organization dedicated to finding missing and runaway children. The organization was started by my friend, Scotty Granger. Scotty was a playwright who, when he became successful, began the organization in memory of his sister. Elizabeth Granger, abducted by a sexual predator when she was eight. While Scotty’s sister had never been seen again, Scotty and his organization had found a lot of these kids, which led to putting a fair number of predators behind bars.

  The last time Scotty had taken me to the office was a month ago. They had just added twenty or so pictures of missing kids to their wall. The young hooker I had seen tonight had been one of them.

  Although it was three in the morning, I pulled out my cell phone and called Scotty. His machine picked up and I left him a message to call me first thing in the morning.

  I hung up, but before I put the phone away, it vibrated in my hand. I’d forgotten to reset it after the show. I saw I had a voice mail. I dialed the number and entered my code. It was Scotty. He’d called at one, from his house phone. I’d been too preoccupied with my date to have heard the phone vibrating on the chair where my pants had been thrown.

  His message was succinct. “Gabe, call me. I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

  I called again; the voice mail picked up, which was unusual for him these days as he was working on the new play, which was in rehearsal. Scotty had always been a slave to his plays, doing rewrites at night, getting up early and being the first one at the theatre. Well, maybe he’d gotten lucky tonight too.

  With the thought rolling enjoyably in my head, I left snoring beauty and took a cab to Fiftieth and Ninth Avenue, and then walked toward Forty-seventh Street and the spot I’d seen her earlier. A few pimps hung back against the buildings peppered with strip joints and peep show places. Some foolhardy men wandered around, looking over the available offerings.

  While it was late, there were still a few hookers trolling for johns. I went up to a tall black woman wearing white short-shorts and a peach halter displaying everything it was haltering—and there was a lot.

  “Hey baby,” She cooed.

  I gave her a quick shake of my head. “I’m not buying, just looking.”

  “For?”

  I described the young blonde and she gave me a knowing nod. “You like ‘em young and white, eh?”

  I laughed. “Sometimes.”

  “Yeah, I know the girl. She goes by the name of Sugar, but she ain’t experienced and I am. You could do worse.”

  “I could, but not tonight. She still working?”

  “I couldn’t tell you, baby, but you walk down the next block, you’ll find a guy by the name of Streeter—got a jagged scar on his face and a dumb-ass fake southern accent. Sugar is one of his girls. But you be careful, he ain’t a nice guy. You hear me, baby?”

  Pulling my money from my pocket, I slipped a twenty free and handed it to her. “I hear you, thanks.”

  “Sure ‘nuff baby. You come back and visit Lilah when you’re ready.”

  I gave her a wink and started away.

  A silver Continental slowed and stopped three quarters of the way down the block. The door opened and discharged a hooker. She was young, too young. Whoever had broken her for the street was working her hard. I figured her for a runaway teen. She didn’t look like a girl desperate for a meal or a place to sleep—that type of girl doesn’t turn tricks throughout the night like a pro, nor do they dress in the glitzy leather this kid had on: it was obvious someone had turned her out.

  I walked slower as I watched her, wondering if she knew ‘Sugar’. She stood still for a few seconds before she turned. At the same instant, a man in loose khaki pants and a salmon guinea T moved out of the shadowy protection of the storefronts. He was tall and thin, with dark hair pulled into a ponytail. There was a tattoo of a bird on his shoulder. He said something I couldn’t make out.

&n
bsp; I was close enough to see them in the cast off haze of neon light. He had a long thin mean face and the scar Lilah had described snaked from the corner of his eye to within a half-inch of his chin. His left ear drooped under the weight of three large diamond earrings. There was little doubt he was Streeter, the pimp the black hooker had described.

  His left hand snaked out, palm up, fingers impatiently wiggling. The girl dug into her halter and pulled out a roll of bills, which she handed him. When I was five feet from them, they looked at me and I smiled. I have two smiles: One is for friends, the other is for… well, times like this.

  “Hey,” I said, staring at the girl. “I sure could use some company.”

  The girl’s shoulders sagged. “I’m done for the night.”

  Up close, I was sure the girl couldn’t be older than sixteen. The guy looked from me to her and at me again before stepping between us. “Sorry mah fren’, like she said, Candy here is done fo’ the night, but I can fix ya up.”

  The black hooker had been right. It was a dumb-ass fake southern accent, and it rankled me. “No, my friend,” I replied, my smile growing stronger. “I only want her.”

  “Don’ make me have to tell ya’ll no in another way.”

  “Hey, all I want to do is speak to her—I’ll pay for the time.”

  “Shit,” the girl spit from behind her pimp.

  He looked over his shoulder and said, “Go!”

  She started away and the pimp took a step toward me. I reached under my jacket for the Sig Sauer when I felt the hard punch of a gun barrel in the center of my back. I was fixed on the girl, I’d lost track of what was around me—not a smart thing.

  I drew my hand out and stared into the grin on the pimp’s scarred face. Then I saw the six-inch blade in his hand, which he was raising between us. “Now, why would ya’ll be messing with me and mah girls?”

  Things like this don’t usually happen in New York, not on Ninth Avenue and especially not to me. There were a couple of ways to play it out, but I decided to be straightforward. “Put the knife down and tell the guy behind me to lower his piece.”